


philtatos

by Madara_Nycteris, princessoftheworlds



Category: Captain America (Movies), Greek and Roman Mythology, The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bucky Barnes as Patroclus, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Reincarnation, Steve Rogers as Achilles, The Song of Achilles!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-10 18:58:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11132787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madara_Nycteris/pseuds/Madara_Nycteris, https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessoftheworlds/pseuds/princessoftheworlds
Summary: James Barnes doesn't know what possessed him to purchase Philtatos, a collection of five paintings based on the legend of Achilles and Patroclus. Even more, he doesn't know why he has a sudden urge to find the collection's anonymous artist, especially when his purchase coincides with strange dreams he began having about the paintings. Could these dreams be only dreams, or could they be something more?





	1. I would know him in death, at the end of the world

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is my contribution to the Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2017! It was a fun couple of months writing this! I would like to thank my artist Madara-Nycteris for entertaining my silly whims, [lostthebucky](http://lostthebucky.tumblr.com/) for turning my mishmash into something readable, [Heidi](http://nikolailantsov.tk/) for being my first reader and helping me along, and [Sarah](http://wolfbarnes.tumblr.com/) for cheering me on! 
> 
> This fic is heavily based on "The Song of Achilles" by Madeleine Miller, but the fic can be read without having read the book with basic knowledge of the Patroclus and Achilles myth. 
> 
> For a summary of the myth and book:
> 
> Achilles, the son of a Greek king and a Greek water nymph, is destined to be a great warrior; it is prophesied that he will die if he kills a Trojan prince named Hector. Patroclus is a Greek prince banished to Achilles' kingdom after accidentally killing a boy. Patroclus becomes Achilles' best friend, princely companion, and philtatos (beloved). As teens, they are trained to be warriors as Chiron, a centaur prominent in Greek mythology. They fight in the Trojan War for about ten years. Patroclus is a medic and befriends a Trojan slave named Briseis; Achilles leads the troops on the field. After a conflict with the other Greek generals, Patroclus sneaks onto the battlefield in Achilles' armor and is mistakenly killed by Hector. A distraught Achilles takes revenge before being killed by an arrow fired by the Trojan prince Paris.
> 
> Disclaimer: Most italicized sections that are separated by headers are excerpts from "The Song of Achilles" by Madeleine Miller and not the author's own writing.

Every story starts with a beginning-well, every story except this one. This story begins with an ending.

~

_Within the walls of Troy, a bow is strung quickly by rushing hands. An arrow is selected, and princely feet hurry up stairs to a tower that tilts over a battlefield of dead and dying. Where a god is waiting._

_It is easy for Paris to find his target. The man moves slowly like a lion grown wounded and sick, but his gold hair is unmistakable. Paris nocks his arrow._

_“Where do I aim? I heard he was invulnerable. Except for-”_

_“He is a man,” Apollo says. “Not a god. Shoot him and he will die.”_

_Paris aims. The god touches his finger to the arrow’s fletching. Then he breathes, a puff of air-as if to send dandelions flying, to push toy boats over water. And the arrow flies, straight and silent, in a curving, downward arc towards Achilles’ back._

_Achilles hears the faint hum of its passage a second before it strikes. He turns his head a little, as if to watch it come. He closes his eyes and feels its point push through his skin, parting thick muscle, worming its way past the interlacing fingers of his ribs. There, at least, is his heart. Blood spills between shoulder blades, dark and slick as oil. Achilles smiles as his face strikes the earth._

~

He watches as the Aristos Achaion stumbles into his palace and moves through halls of gleaming obsidian without his famed grace. The other gods favor this warrior, for they have restored him to his former glory. There is no wound to mark evidence of the cause that has brought him here.

Still, no godly aura can mask the wild desperation that is tearing the mortal apart, that coats his every move.

Finally, the soldier reaches the largest hall in the palace, where every polished surface reflects like a mirror, giving an ethereal and unnatural impression to the room. Here, the mortal allows the grief and panic he was struggling to contain slip through to the surface, crashing to his knees upon the smooth stone of the floor.

“Where is he?”

The tormented scream rips itself from the mortal’s throat, echoing hauntingly throughout the hall. His eyes are enlarged and made distant by the thousand-yard stare of a soldier.

“Where is he?” the mortal cries again with audible anguish, the last of his sanity slipping from his grasp.

It is at this time that the god decides to make his presence noticed.

“Prince Achilles of Phthia, son of the immortal nymph Thetis, son of the King Peleus, slayer of the Trojan prince Hector, the mighty Aristos Achaion.”

Achilles is upon his feet in mere seconds, his face closing off. He bends elegantly in a deep and respectful bow before straightening. “Lord Hades,” he states in acknowledgement, eyes darting wildly around him.

“The one whom you seek will not be found here,” Hades says, voicing the answer to Achilles’ unspoken question in a velvety-low timbre.

The effect of the god’s words are immediate; the mortal’s princely mask slips to reveal the frenzied man beneath, his truer self that few had ever seen

“Where will I find him?” Achilles questions respectfully, the tone at odds with his overpowering urge to strike the answer out of Hades. His temper is contained only by the caution ingrained in him by his mother.

“He will not be found here,” Hades repeats, watching as dark, malicious emotions begin to swell up in the prince’s sky-colored eyes, and continues, “But that is not to say that he cannot be found.”

Achilles uncharacteristically bites his lower lip in confusion. “I do not understand, my lord. Why are you telling me this? The other gods do not support me after the events of the war; why are _you_ helping me?”

Chuckling lowly, Hades responds, “The gods above only concern themselves with matters that pertain to them. I never involve myself in the affairs of the living. And for heroes such as you, death is simply another phase of living; like your _philtatos_ , many pass through.”

The prince digests this new information with a simple nod. “He has gone on, then.” And he needs no confirmation from Hades. “What of me? What of my fate?”

“You are welcome to Elysium unless you choose to pass through, bathing in the waters of the Lethe.”

Achilles dares one last question. “How will I know if I have made the right choice?”

There is genuine sympathy in the god’s voice. “I cannot say that either will be the right choice.”

“I choose-”

~

It’s a bleak mid-Manhattan day outside of James Barnes’s window. Ceiling-to-floor glass provides a view out onto a street clogged with evening traffic and the white melting slush of snow. The only advantage of James’ office being located on the first floor of the building is the faint March light that streams in to illuminate the room.

The man in question leans back in his chair, using one hand to control the keypad of the laptop while he scrolls through his email inbox. His other hand is distractedly stroking the soft, worn Italian leather of the briefcase that rests against his calf.

James clicks through a few more pages in the browser, sighing and rubbing his brow with his free hand in frustration. His head snaps up as sudden staccato taps sound from the hallway, growing closer.

“James?”

Natasha’s sleek red head of curls pokes through James’ door. Upon finding him still seated at his desk, she frowns. “James, I thought you said that you were going home two hours ago.”

He groans in response, looking chastised. “I was leaving…I just got a little distracted, Talia.”

“ _A little_?” Natasha arches a perfect eyebrow in disbelief.

James scowls unattractively.

“Don’t grimace like that, James. Your face will freeze that way, and you will never be able to find a pretty boy or girl to marry your sorry ass.”

He rolls his eyes but continues typing away on his laptop. “I’m nearly finished with the reports for the newest prosthetic updates. The meeting is first thing Monday morning, and I know that Clint won’t finish them in time. I can slip home quickly to change when I’m done.”

“You are always working,” Natasha scolds, rolling her eyes. “Besides, you won’t have time to go home; the function is in an hour, and the limo will be here very soon.” She slips through the doorway, and James notices that she is dressed to the nines. Natasha tosses a duffel at his face. “Catch. Your tux and other shit are already in there.”

“Thanks, Nat,” James calls as he grabs the bag and makes his way into the private bathroom attached to his office. “I love you.”

“You better, asshole. I’m the one keeping you from overworking your ass and collapsing,” she yells back, dropping onto one of the plush couches that adorn his office.

Drying his hair with a towel after a quick shower, he dresses into his tux and combs his hair back into its signature coif, setting it with pomade. When he returns from the bathroom, Natasha waits for him to slip on his shoes and then hands over his wallet and phone.

“Let’s go,” she orders, tugging him out the door.

~

The Stark Galleries, which is, despite the name, a _singular_ art gallery, is housed inconspicuously in a remodeled warehouse at the outskirts of Manhattan, close to where it begins to bleed into the Bronx. Its name holds more prestige than its location; owned by the technology corporation Stark Industries, the gallery is a personal interest and investment for Tony Stark and his wife, CEO of the company, Pepper Potts-Stark. The gallery is a frequent home of certain formal events that the Starks require to be publicity-free; only a select few are ever invited and made privy to its location.

Tonight, for example, the Stark Galleries is hosting an art show and gala to raise money for the New York VA. James and the Starks run in the same social circles, with both of them being at the head of companies that partner to provide top-of-the-line prosthetics to veterans for no charge. The simple difference between the two is that James built Winter Soldier Corporations from a small start-up with his best friend Natasha to a multi-million business in an arduous decade while Tony inherited his company as the family business. But, that is not to say that both haven’t worked equally hard. They are both are engineers who run themselves ragged to help veterans, and both are motivated by their fathers: Tony to undo the decades of horror that his father’s creations had inadvertently allowed, and James in honor of George Barnes who returned home from war missing parts of himself besides his left arm.

As they make their way into the gala from the warehouse’s back entrance, Natasha whispers sardonically into James’ ear. “It’s a pity that there’s no press here; you love to show off.”

Natasha barely avoids James’ attempt to elbow her into silence, but she is speaking the truth. For all his strong points, James is a bit of a vain creature, and he is proud to admit that he and Natasha make a handsome couple.

Natasha is stunning in a gorgeous dark grey gown, fabric gathered and pinned on one side of the waist, with her copper hair descending in waves while James is on her arm in a classic tuxedo with slicked-back hair, a dark grey bowtie that Natasha had thoughtfully grabbed completing the look.

Needless to say, they capture the attention of innumerable eyes. However, though they are both indifferent to their popularity, Natasha, unlike James, appreciates the attention of the man heading their way.

Sam Wilson, formerly a pararescueman of the US Air Force and now a counselor at the VA, has genes just as generous as Natasha’s or James. He is young, though his boyish appearance is offset by the sight goatee he traditionally sports, with soulful eyes and a playful attitude to match.

“Natasha, James,” Sam greets enthusiastically when he is mere feet away.

“Wilson,” James says with a nod of acknowledgement. When Sam is finally close enough, they exchange a causal one-handed hug.

“Sam.” Natasha smiles cryptically, but James, having known Natasha for over two decades now, is quick enough to spot the slight pink blush that darkens her otherwise porcelain skin.  

“When did you two get here?” Sam asks, following them as they move further into the gallery.

“Just a few minutes ago,” Natasha replies as James distractedly examines the crowd.

Aside from those who stream in from both the public and the back entrances, the majority of guests clump together in the large hall that comprises most of the open warehouse. The rest are spilling into the smaller rooms or are clustered above on the balconies that line the inner walls. The jumble of voices and laughter float down from the crowd as the guests feast on the hors d'oeuvre and sip the champagne that waiters are beginning to hoist around on their enormous silver trays.

But, here-- the art...

The art here is the centerpiece of the show. There are various pieces (paintings, sketches, sculptures) done in various styles (Impressionism, Cubism, Modernism, or mixed and unique styles) by obscure but up-and-coming artists that Pepper Potts-Stark has hand-picked herself. Each work is arranged stylistically around the gallery behind three inches of Stark-tech bullet-proof glass and highlighted with subtle lighting that gives off the impression of candlelight.

Natasha and Sam are still carrying on their conversation, but James is distracted enough that their voices have become a monotone buzz in his ear. He has to give Pepper credit: he’s not big on art, considers it a good investment but doesn’t collect pieces aside from a few paintings that adorn his brownstone in Brooklyn, but Pepper has created a well-crafted and meaningful display that is drawing James’ constant attention.

“Hey, man.”

James jolts his attention back to Sam. “Yeah?”

“Have you seen any of the artwork yet?”

“No, Wilson,” James snarks, “as we told you already, we just got here.”

Sam raises an eyebrow, badly masking his burst of laughter at James’ sardonic attitude. “Well, Barnes, consider me to be your personal tour guide.”

“I don’t consider you to be _much_ of anything,” James tells Sam, completely straight-faced. “Actually, I never consider you at all.”

Sam mock-claps. “Ladies,” he says, making emphasized eye contact with Natasha, “and gentlemen, this man considers himself a comedian.”

“Tasha’s not actually a lady.” James scarcely manages to duck Natasha’s dainty hand coming to tug his ear painfully. He shoots her a preening smirk. “She can drink either of us under the table.”

Now, Natasha grins. “It’s true,” she acknowledges. “It’s the Russian in my blood. Makes vodka water for me.”

Chuckling, the trio turns and slips into a smaller room off to the side. They peruse the art in the exhibition room for a brief while before moving onto the next, slightly larger room.

The paintings and statues they examine are exquisite (“Pepper has lovely taste,” Sam states as Natasha hums in agreement), but none specifically catch James’ eyes.

As they hover in front of a lovely landscape of a coast that James doesn’t recognize but believes to belong to Monterrey Bay in California, Sam asks him, “Did your sister take the job offer?”

“Hmm…” James breaks away from considering that the landscape would be nice for the walls of the elevator bank on his floor to glance at Sam. “I’m sorry; did you say something, Wilson? I was too busy ignoring you.”

Sam chuckles handsomely. “Your sister, Rebecca, did she take the job offer out in London that you were telling me about the last time you visited the VA?”

Oh, yes.

James remembers now. His sister Becca is his only flesh and blood left after their parents died when James was twenty-two and Becca was sixteen. He served as her legal guardian until she went off to college. Now, at age twenty-six, she is working at a prominent international law firm in Chicago but was offered the chance for a higher-earning position if she joined the firm’s new offices in London.

Proud of his sister and her achievements, James never hesitates to brag about her to his friends and acquaintances.

“No,” he says honestly. “She refused it. Said that she’s already been building something good out at the Chicago firm, and, truthfully, I don’t think she wanted to live an ocean apart from her big brother.”

“Family, that’s where it is.” Sam nods approvingly.

To James’ right, a waiter materializes out of almost nowhere, carrying a tray laden with drinks, so he grabs three glasses of deep burgundy wine and hands one each to Sam and Natasha. He takes a sip of his own and basks in the spicy yet nutty flavor.

“Mr. Barnes,” comes a booming voice, and James looks over to see an investor of his company who he vaguely recognizes.

“Duty calls,” James complains to Sam and an amused Natasha. “Off to charm our investors.” He catches Natasha rolling her eyes before he trots away obediently.

After schmoozing various businessmen and women with pockets that run deeper than his, James moves away with intent to rejoin Sam and Natasha but is abruptly cornered by the CEO of another company that the Winter Soldier occasionally partners with. Though slightly irritated at being accosted, he is able to channel his smooth and charismatic public persona to make his escape without being discourteous.

James sighs, however, when he finds that Sam and Natasha have vanished from the exhibition they were in previously. He turns to retreat to the main gallery, but his attention is caught by a door disguised as a section of wall. It is not indistinguishable but was likely meant to pass unnoticed unless the room was under strict scrutiny.

Curiosity getting the best of him, he feels around the stretch of wall until he finds a slender gap between the door and its edge. James manages to pry it open to reveal a low-rise staircase heading up. Following the stairs, he finds himself on a level that he presumes to be the loft of the gallery.

At a different time of day, the loft would be an ideal place to display art or to simply be present in; its numerous large windows and high, sweeping ceiling, authentic to the warehouse, provide sufficient room. But at night there is no natural light flowing into the room. Instead, the loft is tastefully lit with vintage lamps.

James surveys this all from his position at the top of the stairs.

He turns to start back down to the main gallery, but finds that he cannot. It is as if there is some otherworldly power compelling him to enter the loft.

His body cannot withstand the demand of this inexplicable force, and James gives in, taking one, then two, and finally several steps into the loft.

James draws closer to the large stretch of wall opposite the stairs, where five large-sized paintings adorn the wall. Each is framed in simple mahogany that doesn’t distract from the beauty of the individual piece.

He moves impulsively until he stands before the first painting.

It features a dining room with high, vaulted ceilings. Young boys seated at long wooden tables reach for bread and grapes and meat. The scene is reminiscent of the classical paintings of Ancient Greece that emerged from the Renaissance, but it is set apart by the two different focal points of the painting. At one of the center tables, positioned in the center of the scene, sits a fine-featured boy. He is angelic, with almost-naïve blue eyes and golden hair that hangs long down is back and is painted with a superficial glow, implying that he is something _more_ than the other boys. Though he is frozen mid-conversation with another boy, his posture directs the eyes of the viewer to the edge of the scene, where another boy is almost hidden. This one is scrawny, dark-haired, olive-skinned, not beautiful or graceful like the other boy, but the artist has painted this one with a _certain_ affection and softness that cannot be offset, even by the boy’s stormy-eyed gaze at the angelic boy.

Too awed to do anything but soundlessly gasp, James stands and gapes for a brief moment before stepping forward toward the painting, hand reaching out unconsciously to trace its features. In sudden realization of his actions, he quickly pulls back his hand and moves to the next painting.

The next painting is a scene of both boys together but this time aged a few years older. They sit beneath an immense fig tree, its branches heavy with ripe fruit, shaded from the burning rays of the sun. The angelic boy leans against the rough bark of the tree, head tilted back with an expression of tranquility, as he blindly strums an exquisite-crafted harp. The olive-skinned boy, less scrawny now, sleeps untroubled, resting his head on the other boy’s thigh. Further from the serene boys, towards the right edge of the painting, the plush carpet of grass gives way to rough gravel and eventually white fine-grained sand before a brief glimpse of the vivid ocean. At the edge of the shore, a woman stands robed in white. Her only discernible features are her ebony hair and heated expression.

His own gaze drawn toward the woman in the painting, James’ skin prickles and erupts into goosebumps as an unnatural cold shiver runs through his body. The sight of the woman makes him feel ill, his heart tightening in an unconscious response.

Set in a similar outdoors scene, the third painting features the two boys wrestling on a strip of nearly-blinding white sand. A small river cuts through the right edge of the painting, stones and plants visible below the opaquely-painted surface. On the left of the boys, a mossy outcropping of rocks narrowly hides the entrance to a cave. The boys, frozen in mid-motion, are breathless and gazing at each other with expressions of adoration and even the slightest bit of lust. It’s improper to call them boys now, because both are older and grown, aged almost sixteen or seventeen. The angelic boy is still as beautiful as he has been in the past paintings, square-jawed but long-eye-lashed. His companion is no longer scrawny but gangly with the slightest bit of muscle; his features are more prominently masculine.

James moves to the fourth painting, eyebrows scrunched tightly together in an involuntary response.

The fourth painting is set in a field of vividly-gorgeous wildflowers. The olive-skinned man is discernibly older by at least half a decade, and has grown into his features handsomely. He sits among the grass beside a woman of beauty comparable to the angelic boy. Dark-skinned with wise eyes, she smiles at the man as they collect herbs from the field. Her dark hair is braided tightly behind her, laced with wildflowers from the field they sit in, and she tilts her face slightly towards the sun to bask in its warmth. Unknown to the couple in the meadow, the angelic man creeps at the edge of the painting, ugly jealousy spilt like oil over his face. He is still beautiful, but his expression is at odds with the softness in his eyes when he gazes at the other man.

But it is the final painting that James reacts most strikingly to.

The simplest and almost looking unfinished painting seems to be outcome of the artist’s rawest emotion, the crux of his or her soul if he or she were stripped bare, skin, bones, and all. The background is a stormy night, purple sky with splotches of white clouds. Rain is visible in little slashes and the shadow of a mountain range is a dark silhouette in the background. In the center of the painting stands the angelic man, head turned to the side, a tormented expression barely visible in his blue eyes. He is clad in the traditional garb of an Ancient Greek warrior, feathered helmet and red toga. In his arms, he clutches the olive-skinned man, limp and lifeless but still whole, with no visible wound on him. It is as if the artist wanted the olive-skinned man to be untarnished, even in death.

In a trance-like state, James approaches the plaque placed to the right and outstretches a single hand to trace the embossed lettering.

It is a gold square of metal that reads in tilted font:

_Philtatos_

He stands there, mind blank, unaware of time passing, for minutes until the sudden sound of the door swinging open alerts him to the fact that he is no longer alone.

“Hello? Anyone up here?”

Pepper Potts-Stark strides into the room, her heel clicking rhythmically against the wooden floor. She is a very graceful and attractive woman, dressed elegantly as usual in a high collar white gown with her strawberry-blond hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail.

“Oh, James. I didn’t expect to find you here!” Pepper blinks in surprise as James can only gaze owlishly at her.

“Huh?” He breaks off their eye contact. He is on edge, unprepared and definitely not in the right headspace for this interaction, but he shakes it off. “I’m sorry, I found the door, and I suppose curiosity got the best of me.”

“It’s fine.” She smiles politely, coming to stand beside him in front of the collection.

“It’s a lovely collection,” he mutters, barely audible.

“Yes,” Pepper agrees. “It really is.” After a moment, she adds, “I found it in a gallery out in Boston while I was on a business trip last year. It was an irresistible purchase; I had it shipped here immediately. The collection has remained up here since.”

“The artist?”

She shakes her head. “They preferred to stay anonymous.” Pepper takes a sideways glance at him. “James, are you alright? You seem a bit rattled.”

He coughs, clearing his throat. “Yeah, I’m didn’t get enough sleep last night. Ended up working until dawn.”

She makes a sympathetic face. “I know that feeling.” Sighing, she continues, “Sleepless nights are a constant when you have a husband who prefer to tinker rather than sleep. Anyone in your life now, James?”

James barks a harsh laugh. “Nope. No one. Only got Becca.”

She nods. “How is she?”

“Fine, I guess. Happy. Still working at the law firm.”

Their conversation tapers off, and they stand in silence for a brief while before James speaks up suddenly:

“I want to buy it.”

Pepper doesn’t even blink. “Which one?”

“The entire collection.”

She nods. “Of course.”

“How much would that cost?”

“Stark Galleries paid a total of $6,000 to the original gallery in Boston. We can raise the price to $8,000.”

“No need,” James says. “I’ll pay twice that.”

~

That night, he has the first of the dreams.

~

_Patroclus watched all the boy from his place at a corner table, bread crumpled in his fist. The keen edge of his envy was like flint, a spark away from fire._

_On one of these days Achilles sat closer to him than usual; only a table distant. The prince’s dusty feet scuffed against the flagstones as he ate. They were not cracked and callused as Patroclus’ were, but pink and sweetly brown beneath the dirt._ Prince, _Patroclus sneered inside his head._

_The other boy turned, as if he had heard him. For a second their eyes held, and Patroclus felt a shock run through him. He jerked his gaze away, and busied himself with his bread. His cheeks were hot, and his skin prickled as if before a storm. When, at last, he ventured to look up again, Achilles had turned back to his table and was speaking to the other boys._

_After that, Patroclus was craftier with his observation, kept his head down and his eyes ready to leap away. But Achilles was craftier still. At least once a dinner he would turn and catch Patroclus before he could feign indifference. Those seconds, half seconds, that the line of their gaze connected, were the only moment in Patroclus’ day that he felt anything at all. The sudden swoop of his stomach, the coursing anger. He was like a fish eyeing the hook._

~

James rouses from his sleep, gasping. His sheets are damp below him; he can feel the sweat covering his back soak through his thin sleep shirt. Slowly, counting in and out, he manages to get his breathing back under control.

Then, without a single guiding thought in his mind, he finds himself reaching for his cell phone on his bedside table.

He dials the familiar number on autopilot and hits the call button.

The line rings and rings, and James waits impatiently, foot tapping in an irregular rhythm on the wooden floor.

Finally, the call connects, and there is a voice on the other end.

Before the other person is even done, James is speaking:

“Pepper? It’s James Barnes. I need the address of the gallery in Boston.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos make the world go 'round! Follow the author on tumblr [here](https://princess-of-the-worlds.tumblr.com/) and follow the artist on tumblr [here](https://madara-nycteris.tumblr.com//).


	2. I feel like I could eat the world raw

“So, Jamie,” Becca begins causally, and James already knows that he is doomed. “A little birdie told me you were going to Boston this weekend…”

“Natasha wouldn’t like that you called her a bird,” James drawls straightforwardly. When Becca gives him a pointed glance, her bullshit radar accurate even over a video call, he rolls his eyes. “I swear, that woman knows the details of my life better than I do.”

“That woman,” Becca corrects him, “practically runs your life. Besides.” Now, she’s smirking at him, dark eyes twinkling almost devilishly. “Does this trip have anything to do with a rather hefty purchase you recently made?”

“Shuddup,” he groans, the sound muffled as he presses his face in the soft velvet of his bed’s comforter. “It was a collection of art. People buy art. Adults buy art.”

“James, you’re thirty-two, not twenty-two. You’re the CEO of a company.”

“Co-CEO,” he replies automatically.

“Will I ever get to see it?” Becca’s tone is childishly curious; as is her nature, she is bothering him simply because he is denying her an answer.

“No,” James says almost immediately. “I have it stored somewhere.”

In reality, the entire collection is displayed on the walls of his private office, a room always locked whether James is at home or not, because he’s paranoid that way.

Becca’s raised eyebrows and questioning expression is an uncanny replica of Winifred Barnes, and, as he has several times in the years since their parents passed, James is overcome by a _sudden_ desire for his mother.

Winifred and George Barnes were a picture-perfect couple, and their inability to have their own biological children did not stop them from building their own perfect family. Five-year-old James was adopted after his biological parents were slaughtered by the bloody Romanian Revolution. Four years later, the Barnes brought home toddler Rebecca who had been rescued from an abusive domestic home. Fifteen years later, when Becca attempted to trace her biological parents, she discovered that her birth mother had perished in the slums of her birth city of New Delhi.

They were James’ and Becca’s parents, _the only parents_ that they had ever had, and neither skin color nor biology could change that.

“Besides,” James continues. “Boston is for a work thing; I’m running an errand for Pepper Potts.”

“Whatever you say,” Becca replies in clear disbelief. “Hey. Have you found anyone new?”

He whines, knowing what stream of conversation is approaching. “No, I have not, Becca.”

“If you want,” Becca says. “I have a couple friends moving up to New York in a few weeks. They’re twins. If you don’t like the sister, you can try the brother.”

“Good bye, Becca,” James exclaims, and, before his sister can protest, he taps the button to end their call. When the video disconnects, he tosses his phone onto the bed beside him and sighs. “I guess it’s time to pack,” he mutters to himself and pushes up off his bed to wander in search of his suitcase.

~

The second dream comes the next night, and, now, it is more like the recollection of a forgotten memory.

~

_It was late summer, over a year after Patroclus’ exile had begun, when at last he told Achilles of how he had killed the boy. They were in the branches of the courtyard oak, hidden by the patchwork leaves. It was easier here somehow, off the ground, with the solid trunk at his back. Achilles listened silently, and when he had finished, the other boy asked:_

_“Why did you not say that you were defending yourself?”_

_It was like him to ask this, the thing Patroclus had not thought of before._

_“I don’t know.”_

_“Or you could have lied. Said you found him already dead.”_

_Patroclus stared at him, stunned by the simplicity of it. He could have lied. And then the revelation that followed:_ if I had lied, I would still be a prince. _It was not murder that had exiled him, it was his lack of cunning. He understood, now, the disgust in his father’s eyes. His moron son, confessing all. Patroclus recalled how his jaw had hardened as Patroclus spoke._ He does not deserve to be a king.

_“You would not have lied,” Patroclus said._

_“No,” he admitted._

_“What would you have done?” Patroclus asked._

_Achilles tapped a finger against the branch he sat on. “I don’t know. I can’t imagine it. The way the boy spoke to you.” He shrugged. “No one has ever tried to take something from me.”_

_“Never?” Patroclus could not believe it. A life without such things seemed impossible._

_“Never.” He was silent a moment, thinking. “I don’t know,” he repeated, finally. “I think I would be angry.” He closed his eyes and rested his head back against a branch. The green oak leaves crowded around his hair, like a crown._

~

Swift as a bullet, James sits up in bed, bracing his back against his headboard before cringing in disgust. Once again, he has sweated enough that the back of his sleep shirt is soaked, feeling disgusting as it drags against his skin.

He lifts his arms above his head and shucks his shirt off, tossing it to an unseen direction in his dark bedroom. Despite being shirtless, James is still overheating, and the air is becoming suffocating in the room.

James slips out of his bed, pausing to grab his cell phone, and pads downstairs, fully alert. He pushes his feet into a pair of ratty flipflops and continues his journey into his miniscule backyard.

He may have fished over a fuck ton of money for a tiny square of grass, but the green space is private, and the green space is his.

It is big enough, in fact, for a few feet of concrete before the grass where a porch swing is arranged, and so James moves to sit on the edge of it, letting momentum sway the swing slightly forward.

The night air is chilly and causes James’ skin to prickle into goosebumps, but it is a welcome relief from the unbreathable air of his bedroom.

He unlocks his cell phone and find his Google app.

_What do strange dreams that feel more like memories mean?_

The first few search results yield nothing but bogus Reddit discussions or Tumblr posts. Lower on the first page, however, is a link with a description that looks trustworthy.

The link leads to a professional-style blog with a short post already loaded on the screen:

**In Dreams We Walk With Ghosts**

_No, really. Psychologist Andrew Garner claims that dreams are an effort by the human subconscious to link and to describe the odd occurrences of déjà vu that we feel on a day-to-day basis. In his research paper, titled simply “Dreams in the Subconscious,” he explains that dreams are prompted by faint snippets of memory and experience that have always been present in our individual minds but cannot be traced back anywhere._

_Here is where science takes a turn for the supernatural._

_Greek mythology has a notion that when good souls died and were sent to the Underworld then they were given a choice to be reborn._

_Some people claim that these moments of déjà vu and strange dreams are simply echoes of memories from past lives, from before we were reborn._

_Others claim that these theories are complete horseshit or undermine scientific arguments._

_What do you think, my dear readers? Drop a line in the comments below; let me know._

It’s isn’t completely unbelievable for James, who has always slightly believed in the unusual.

The author, W. Maximoff, is credible enough. From his or her bio, James learns that he or she is a Sokovian-American grad student from Emerson College in Boston who double majored in Psychology and Occult Studies.

The article does not satisfy James’ need for justification for his strange dreams but is a step towards the right direction.

Sighing, James rises, stretching his neck to the side several times to relax any sore muscles, and retreats into the safety of his home.

An alert on his cell phone informs him that in about an hour the sun will be rising, and James decides to finish his packing, since he has to depart for the airport in a few hours anyway.

~

“May I speak with your curator? I have an appointment.”

The SSR is a decent-sized art gallery housed in a beautiful colonial-style building. The historic front of the gallery contrasts the sleek lines and shiny surfaces of its inside. The gallery houses an eclectic mix of modern art and other various forms and is exactly the type of place that James would expect Pepper Potts-Stark to frequent.

“And your name is?” The receptionist at the front desk gives James a scrutinizing glance.

“James Barnes,” he replies politely.

The receptionist’s expression brightens considerably. “Oh, Mr. Barnes, we’ve been expecting you,” she chirps. “Ms. Carter is in her office; I’ll take you to her.”

No longer sitting behind the desk, the receptionist is petite and comes up only to James’ collarbone. She gestures frantically as she continues to talk, leading James down a hallway. “Sorry about that. After Mrs. Potts-Stark made her purchase last year, our business has exploded, and we’ve had some very strange experiences. That’s why Ms. Carter stresses our strict attitude when it comes to walk-ins compared to appointments.”

“No issues.” He waves off her apology. “I completely understand.”

The receptionist stops beside a door labelled _P. Carter_ and knocks twice. After a few moments, there is a muffled call of “Come in,” prompting the receptionist to turn the doorknob and swing the door inwards. She sticks her head inside the room and says clearly, “Ms. Carter, your appointment is here.”

The woman James assumed to be Peggy Carter glances up from behind a neat yet massive desk as he enters the room. “Thank you, Angie,” she tells the receptionist in a crisp British accent before turning to address James. “Please be seated, Mr. Barnes.”

Angie exits the room, tugging the door shut behind her, as he moves to sit on a chair placed before the desk. “Please, call me James,” he says, grinning charismatically at her.

She smiles back at him politely. “Then I must insist that you call me Peggy.” She places both elbows on her desk and leans slightly forward. “Now, what do you need?”

“I am here to talk to you about the collection that Pepper Potts-Stark purchased from your gallery last year.”

Though Peggy makes no response, simply motioning for James to continue, the pupils of her dark, expressive eyes widen slightly, indicating that he has gained her interest.

“See, I purchased the collection _Philtatos_ from Mrs. Potts-Stark’s gallery a few nights ago,” he explains, placing both of his palms flat on the table. “And I would like to inquire about the identity of the artist.”

Peggy’s gaze sharpens as she focuses on James, and her bold red lips press into a line before she speaks curtly, “What about the artist?”

“I was wondering,” James begins, matching Peggy’s brusque tone, “if I could receive any contact information for the artist.”

“What business do you have with him or her?” she fires back quickly.

“I…” he trails off, wondering, not for the first time, why he insists on finding this painter. Peggy’s eyes are flashing with every hesitating breath that he takes. “I have taken a personal interest in the artist’s work,” he admits honestly.

“Oh.” Peggy’s demeanor relaxes, though her eyes remain trained intently on him. “Normally, the SSR would have a conflict of interest between the privacy rights of our patrons and the privacy rights of our clients, but, as you are such a public figure and as well as Mrs. Potts-Stark personally vouching for you, I am willing to bend the rules slightly.”

“Thank you,” James says gratefully, ducking his head. He then raises his eyes and watches as Peggy swivels in her desk chair to access the row of filing cabinets behind her; the jingle of a key and the screechy scrape of metal against metal is heard as she unlocks one and pulls it open.

After rifling through a drawer of the unlocked cabinet for a few moments, she retrieves a manila folder and locks the cabinet, facing James again with the folder open flat on her desk. Her expression softens briefly as she reads through the file. Then she glances up at James, frowning slightly. “I am incredibly sorry, but this is one of the rare occasions that an artist has chosen to remain anonymous. Our details on him or her are quite scarce.” She offers him an apologetic smile.

“It’s fine. Mrs. Potts-Stark had mentioned that detail.” He chuckles cynically. “I chose to remain hopeful.”

Peggy’s smile remains on her face as she continues to scan the file. “I believe,” she begins slowly after a few moments, “that we can offer you some information.”

James leans forward, eager but still professional.

“The artist’s initials are SGR, and he or she appears to reside in New York, or at least he or she did around last year,” she tells him.

_SGR. New York._

_In a city of millions, will it be possible to find a single artist?_

James will not be able to conduct a search, but he has contacts who may be able to and wealth to motivate them.

“I hope that helps,” Peggy adds.

“It does.” James flashes her another grin. “It helps tremendously.”

~

Rather than take a quick cab ride back to his hotel, James decides to walk. It is a short distance, only fifteen minutes of walking at a brisk pace, and the evening Boston air is cool and only the slightest bit chilly. Though the sky has only begun to darken, he remains alert.

He and Natasha have been training in self-defense for about the last decade, but he doesn’t desire to be caught off-guard by a mugger.

James is making his way down the street when he sees it.

_Scarlet Witch_

_Psychic consultations by W. Maximoff_

It is too much of a coincidence to ignore the sign embossed on the window of the archaic shop.

_But does James really want a reading from a psychic?_

A psychic would really be stretching James’ belief in the odd and unnatural, but he is intent on finding an artist he has never met and who prefers to stay anonymous based on a series of dreams and a collection of paintings.

“What the fuck?” he mutters finally. “What could I lose besides a couple of dollars?”

The bell above the shop door chimes as he carefully shoves it open, and James finds himself in a small tile area outfitted with an overstuffed loveseat and couch before a small front desk.

Clearly, this area serves as a makeshift reception or lobby.

The front of the shop, however, is empty.

“Hello?” he calls, standing awkwardly beside the loveseat.

There is the sudden click of heels against a floor as someone moves towards James. A young woman appears from behind an ornate divider. “Oh, hello,” she says, her words tinged with a slight Eastern European accent. “I was so busy back there that I never heard you come in. How may I help you?”

Maximoff is lovely in an unassuming way. She wears her dark hair straight, hanging past her shoulders all the way down to her waist, and her face is unadorned by any cosmetics except for slight kohl to emphasize her brown eyes. She is dressed in shades of red that are dark enough to be seen as black in the right light.

“I was wondering how much it would be for a consultation?” James asks, managing to mask his hesitation.

“$10 dollars per appointment,” she replies kindly. “Would you like to make one?”

“What about walk-ins?”

“If you have time, I am free now for a consultation.” When she spots James reaching for his wallet, she waves him off. “You can pay at the end.”

He nods and follows her deeper into her shop until they reach a decent-sized square table. She sits on one side and gestures for him to side on the other.

“I am Wanda,” she tells him. “Wanda Maximoff.”

“I’m James,” he replies. “And I know. I stumbled upon your blog just yesterday of all things. And then I found your shop the exact weekend I happen to be in Boston.” He chuckles.

“Coincidence?” she hums. “I think not.”

He grins, mind racing. “I believe so then.”

“So, what brought you to Boston, Brooklynite?”

The words _I never told you that I was from Brooklyn, let alone New York_ freezes in his throat, and he simply laughs. It seems that there is credence to this psychic thing. “Business.”

“And what brought you here, James?”

“A coincidence.”

Now Wanda laughs, a gorgeously musical sound.

“Nah,” he drawls, bringing his charm. “It was business of a more personal interest.”

“Do tell.”

“For the last two days, I have been-” _Plagued_ wouldn’t be the correct word; the dreams have never been a burden. They were almost welcome. “For the last two days, I have been having strange dreams that feel more as if they were forgotten memories rather than dreams. Even more unusual, the dreams seem to be inspired by a collection of paintings I purchased the night I had the first dream.”

Wanda’s eyes are alight with keen interest, and she hums thoughtfully. “There are various causes of this oddity that I can think of. To give you a more specific reply, I would require a peek inside your mind.”

“And how does that work?” he asks curiously. “How much are you actually able to see?”

“It all depends on how receptive and open my client is. Somedays, I can only sense emotions and must piece together the answer my client desires. Other days, I am lucky enough to glimpse whole memories. However fleeting they are, memories are more informative than emotions.”

“Oh.”

“Do you wish for me to proceed?” Wanda questions gently.

He blinks slowly, startled, before shaking his head. “Go ahead.”

She takes his palms in hers gently. For someone so young, Wanda’s skin feels rough underneath his, dry and marked with tiny scars. “It will be easier if you close your eyes and relax your mind,” she instructs him.

James obeys, squeezing his eyes shut and allowing his muscles to loosen. He stares into the inner skin of his eyelids, waiting for something, anything.

Then, there it is, a _whisper_ probing at his mind; it feels like the process of receiving an injection, the tiny prickling awareness of the needle and then nothing.

He sits still, aware of Wanda’s grip around his hands but not much else.

Then, however, Wanda begins muttering. “There is something,” she begins breathlessly, “in your mind. A barrier. It is blocking much of my power.”

“Can you remove it?” he inquires, unsure of how to react.

She shakes her head in refusal. “No. I cannot. It is a natural barrier; it is a part of your mind. Only you will be able to break through it or remove it when you believe that it is time. Or, rather, your mind will do it gradually. Based on your description of your dreams, I believe that it has already begun.”

“Oh.”

“There is one tactic I can attempt that may help expedite the process,” Wanda explains. “Do you wish for me to try?”

“I trust you.” James shrugs, unnaturally calm. In other circumstances, he would be shying away from experimental procedures, physical or mental, but it is as if a sixth sense is allowing him to believe that no harm will come to him.

“Brace yourself.”

This time, only moments after his eyes shut, there is a distinctive force that _slams_ inside his mind; it hurts like a bitch, the strongest migraine that James has ever felt, but only for several seconds. He winces but manages to keep his mind and body relaxed until the pain dissipates.

A series of images flicker across his mind, rapid and sudden, almost as if Wanda has shaken something loose in his mind.

            _the blond boy from his dreams and the paintings laughing and juggling figs_

and

            _the blond smiling as he strums a golden harp, relaxing in the shade of an olive grove_

and

            _the blond, long hair buffeting in a strong wind, as he calls a name, “Patro—”_

and

            _the blond, now grown, pulling on straps of leather and bronze, outfitting himself in sacred armor. He smiles, gentle and sweet, eyes sparkling with happiness, but, once he leaves the privacy of their tent, he will transform. His smile will harden into a blood-thirsty smirk, his narrow harp-strumming fingers will throw spear after spear into the enemies’ hearts, he will be untouchable, dodging stray arrows with grace willed to him by gods. He will no longer be the boy loved by his best friend and_ philtatos _; he will become a prince, a warrior, a leader, a god amongst men._

These are memories, James realizes, but they slip like fish from his grasp, swimming from his mind and leaving him with a sense of _empty_.

When his eyes meet Wanda’s, she is gasping, chest heaving as her body works to force air back into her breathless lungs.

James is unaffected, besides the _empty_ , and waits for Wanda to return to normal before he asks, voice only slightly hoarse, “What was that?”

She shakes her head again, pausing for a few seconds; then she replies. “My only guess is…you remember that passage from my blog post, about the souls who are reborn?”

He nods.

“I believe that you are one of them. And it is your past life that your mind is attempting to recall. You are having these dreams, because your soul is attempting to break through the threads woven in your mind by the gods.”

“I’m sorry?” He gapes at her briefly. “I guess; it seems entirely possible…” he mutters to himself. Speaking back to Wanda, he asks, “Will I ever recall everything…from my past life?”

She frowns. “I cannot be sure. I have heard of very few people who retain memories from their past life, those who slip through the River of Lethe’s cracks, but I have never met any. You are the first. That is all I could possibly tell you.”

“Lethe?” he echoes.

Wanda must see the confusion written in the planes of James’ face. “You know something of Greek mythology, yes?” Once he nods, she continues, “The Ancient Greeks believed that once a man died, his soul would go to the Underworld to be judged. If he was deemed evil, he would be assigned punishment. If he was a good soul, he would either be reborn, his memories erased by the River of Lethe, or choose to go to Elysium, paradise.”

“Oh.” He pauses, hesitant. “Thank you for your time.” He makes a motion to stand.

She smiles softly up at him. “It was my pleasure.”

“How much do I—”

She waves him off, shaking her head. “No. I will not charge you for this. I wish you luck. Please do return, if possible, if your memories return fully.”

“I will.”

~

It is an arduous walk back to his hotel, but James grabs a bite to eat at a Mexican restaurant before continuing on his way.

Once he is inside his room and the door locks behind him, he sheds his clothes down to his boxers, wadding them into a ball that he places on an armchair. He eats sitting on the bed and watching a mediocre reality show that he vaguely remembers as being liked by Rebecca. The zesty tang of the sour cream mixed with the sharp spiciness of the salsa is delicious, but he can barely force himself to finish half of his burrito.

Head laying on the flat hotel pillow, he is hit with a bone-aching exhaustion he hadn’t felt before and is swept under by a wave of sleep.

~

_The summer grew hotter, and they sought the river’s shade, its water that threw off arcs of light as they splashed and dove. The rocks of the bottom were mossy and cool, rolling beneath his toes as Patroclus waded. They shouted, and frightened the fish, who fled to their muddy holes or quieter waters upstream. The rushing ice melt of spring was gone; Patroclus lay on my back and let the dozy current carry him. He liked the feel of the sun on his stomach and the cool depths of the river beneath him. Achilles floated beside him or swam against the slow tug of the river’s flow._

_When they tired of this, they would seize the low-hanging branches of the osiers and hoist ourselves half-out of the water. On this day they kicked at each other, their legs tangling, trying to dislodge the other, or perhaps climb onto his branch. On an impulse, Patroclus released his branch and seized Achilles around his hanging torso. He let out an ooph of surprise. They struggled that way for a moment, laughing, Patroclus’ arms wrapped around Achilles. Then there was a sharp cracking sound, and his branch gave way, plunging them into the river. The cool water closed over them, and still they wrestled, hands against slippery skin._

_When they surfaced, they were panting and eager. Achilles leapt for Patroclus, bearing him down through the clear water. They grappled, emerged to gasp air, then sank again._

_At length, their lungs burning, their faces red from too long underwater, they dragged ourselves to the bank and lay there amidst the sedge-grass and marshy weeds. Their feet sank into the cool mud of the water’s edge. Water still streamed from Achilles’ hair, and Patroclus watched it bead, tracing across his arms and the lines of his chest._

~

~

When his plane touches down at JFK, James pulls out his cell phone and powers it back on, only to find several text messages and missed phone calls from Natasha that are dated from only a few hours before.

 **Nat** _8:38 am_

Are you back in NY yet?

 **Nat** _8:43 am_

James, pick up the phone

 **Nat** _9:15 am_

I’m serious, pick up the phone

 **Nat** _9:25 am_

Pick up the fucking phone, James Buchanan Barnes

Fingers fumbling, he rushes to call Natasha back and only has to wait seconds listening to the line ring until she picks up.

“Why could you not have picked up the damn phone before, James?” she hisses.

To anyone else, Natasha would seem furious, but, having known her as long as he has, James can recognize that she is anxious.

He sighs. “I was on the plane, Nat. I’m back in town.” Tucking his cell phone against his ear and shoulder, he grabs his suitcase from baggage claim and proceeds out the door to the street. “Hold on.” He exits the phone app on his phone and summons an Uber before returning to Natasha. “Yeah. What’s going on?”

“Sam Wilson asked me out.”

James chokes back a bark of laughter. “Seriously? I thought it’d take Wilson longer.”

“This is not amusing for me, James Barnes,” Natasha grounds out in his ear.

“I’m sorry.” He still can’t help a chuckle. “I’m sorry. When did this happen?”

“This morning. We ran into each other at the gym.”

“When’s the date?” Natasha remains silent for a questionable amount of time, and he groans internally. “You did give him an answer, right?”

“I didn’t say yes, but I definitely didn’t say no either,” she replies vaguely. Her voice softens. “What if it’s like last time?”

That’s where James cuts her off. “No, Nat. Sam Wilson will never be Alexei; he’s too good for that. Sam makes you laugh; I can count the number of people who can do that on one hand.”

Only months after James and Natasha became friends in college, Natasha met Alexei Shostakov, a slightly older businessman, in a Russian bodega. They fell hard for each other in a whirlwind romance and married after knowing each other for only a few months. There was a very ugly and messy divorce a short six months later, finishing with Alexei returning to Russia, and leaving Natasha very disillusioned and bitter about love.

“I know,” she responds tonelessly.

“Look, Nat, I know that I’m not qualified to tell you this; I’ve never been in love.” _But, if his dreams really are memories of his past life, then someone had loved him, loved him in ways that couldn’t be measured._ “But I have seen my mom and dad, and they were happy for years. I really do think that Sam can make you happy. It’s your choice, though, if you want to tell him yes.”

“Thank you, James.” Her words are oddly clipped, as if Natasha is repressing emotion, but she sounds honest and grateful.

Once the call ends, James slips his phone back into his pocket. When his Uber arrives, he takes a seat in the back, loading his suitcase next to him.

“Where to?” the driver questions.

“Hell’s Kitchen.” He leans against the car door, hand rest on the arm rest. “I have an errand.”

~

Jessica Jones is a hard-eyed woman with inky-dark hair and lips that curl up into a sardonic smile. Even in the comforts of her own office, she remains in her black leather jacket, elbows crossed behind her head as she leans back, legs up on her desk. “So, you want me to find an artist?”

Jones and James are acquainted through her best friend and girlfriend Trish. He has been featured on her radio talk show several times, and they meet at several Stark Galas, but Trish never brings her girlfriend, because “Jess only likes dresses if I’m wearing one.”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll pay me for it?”

He nods.

Jones rolls her eyes. “You know that you can do this yourself in today’s day and age. Computers are a thing, asshole.”

He avoids gritting his teeth and instead smiles convincingly. “Yes, but I am currently incredibly preoccupied.”

“Fine.” She huffs, tossing her hair back and away from her face.

“How much will you charge?” he inquires, fingers tapping against Jones’ desk.

Jones shrugs nonchalantly. “Depends on how long or how much work it takes, Barnes.”

“Thanks.” He rises, tugging at the sleeves of his jacket. As he begins to slip out the door of Jones’ office, James pauses and turns back to her. “Tell Trish I said hello.”

“Tell her yourself, asshole,” she shoots back.

~

Later in the day, after a quick dinner at a Korean restaurant with Natasha, James finds a voicemail waiting on his phone.

“Hey, asshole,” Jones’ voice says. “I found your artist.”

His heart thuds once, twice, then thrice, as he presses the phone to his ear with a white-knuckled grip, straining to hear every word of Jones’ message.

“His name is Steven Grant Rogers, and he lives in your fucking borough of Brooklyn. Born July 4, 1986, so I’m betting that he’s a real patriotic asshole. He’s an artist and has painted several public pieces. Even painted a mural at the VA near your neighborhood.”

James bites his lip hard enough that it begins to bleed.

“Oh, by the way, asshole,” Jones adds. “I don’t want any payment, but you do owe me a favor that I will collect on.”

The message ends, and James tosses the phone onto his bed.

_Steven Grant Rogers? In Brooklyn?_

He’s probably met this man.

How many times did he pass the artist on the street and never know that his art would change his life?

“Well, Steven fucking Rogers,” James says, rubbing his eyes heavily. “I can’t wait to meet you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos make the world go 'round! Follow the author on tumblr [here](https://princess-of-the-worlds.tumblr.com/) and follow the artist on tumblr [here](https://madara-nycteris.tumblr.com//).


	3. We were like gods at the dawning of the world

_Briseis asked Patroclus to teach her medicine and promised in return a knowledge of the area’s herbs, indispensable to Machaon’s dwindling supply. He agreed, and passed many contented days with her in the forest, parting low-hanging branches, reaching underneath rotting logs for mushrooms as delicate and soft as the ear of a baby._

_Sometimes on those days her hand would accidentally brush his, and she would look up and smile, water drops hanging from her ears and hair like pearls. Her long skirt was tied practically around her knees, revealing feet that were sturdy and sure._

_One of these days they had stopped for lunch. They feasted on cloth-wrapped bread and cheese, strips of dried meat, and water scooped with their hands from the stream. It was spring, and they were surrounded by the profusion of Anatolian fertility. For three weeks the earth would paint herself in every color, burst every bud, unfurl each rioting petal. Then, the wild flush of her excitement spent, she would settle down to the steady work of summer. It was his favorite time of year._

_Patroclus should have seen it coming. Perhaps everyone will think him stupid that he did not. He was telling her a story—something about Chiron, he thinks—and she was listening, her eyes dark like the earth on which they sat. He finished, and she was quiet. This was nothing unusual; she was often quiet. They were sitting close to each other, heads together as if in conspiracy. He could smell the fruit she had eaten; Patroclus could smell the rose oils she pressed for the other girls, still staining her fingers. She was so dear to him, Patroclus thought. Her serious face and clever eyes. He imagined her as a girl, scraped with tree-climbing, skinny limbs flying as she ran. He wished that he had known her then, that she had been with him at his father’s house, had skipped stones with his mother. Almost, Patroclus could imagine her there, hovering just at the edge of his remembrance._

_Her lips touched his. Patroclus was so surprised he did not move. Her mouth was soft and a little hesitant. Her eyes were sweetly closed. Of habit, of its own accord, his mouth parted. A moment passed like this, the ground beneath them, the breeze sifting flower scents. Then she drew back, eyes down, waiting for judgment. His pulse sounded in his ears, but it was not as Achilles made it sound. It was something more like surprise, and fear that he would hurt her. He put his hand to hers._

_She knew, then. She felt it in the way he took her hand, the way his gaze rested on her. “I’m sorry,” she whispered._

_Patroclus shook his head, but could not think of what more to say._

~

James wakes up with a gasp.

Swiftly, he slips from his bed and makes his way to his office, unlocking the door, striding forward until he comes to stand in front of the paintings of the collection.

He stands and studies the fourth painting of _Philatos_ for what seems to be hours.

~

James searched the Internet like hell for a Steven Grant Rogers but only found the man’s portfolio, no pictures of the man himself. His portfolio is full of paintings done in abstract and surrealistic styles, none even distinctively like the paintings of _Philatos_.

So, now he stands here, hands tucked into the pockets of his leather jacket, in front of SGR’s door.

It’s a fairly nice door, solid oak wood, in a fairly nice apartment building in a fairly nicer neighborhood in Brooklyn, something James supposes a successful artist could afford, especially an artist who sold obscure collections of art to Pepper Potts-Stark.

He stands here now, hands slipping from his jacket to knock on the door.

In response to the sound of his tapping on the door, footsteps begin to make their way towards the door. They pause briefly, and, then, there is the quick clink of metal as the door chain is removed

Slowly, the door swings open.

James’ heart beats a frantic symphony in his chest, perfectly in rhythm with the staccato pounding and the amplified aria of his wheezy breaths.

Tall and broad-shouldered with muscle packed on a lean frame. Aristocratic features and a square chin. Blond hair, finer than corn silk, styled with product. Baby blue eyes currently rippling through a cycle of bewilderment and hope and optimism.

It’s the artist; he’s the boy and then later man from the _Philatos_ paintings.

“Patroclus?” Steve Rogers breathes.

 _Achilles_.

James doesn’t realize that the name has slipped from his mouth until Steve Rogers is striding forward and crushing James’ mouth to his in a powerful and passionate kiss.

Thankfully, James must only wait a few moments until Rogers realizes that he is unresponsive to the embrace. He releases the other man and steps back respectfully.

“Patroclus?” he echoes, staring up at James with widened eyes and a sinfully-red mouth.

Rooted in place until _that_ name was uttered again, James does the first and only thing that comes to his mind.

He _bolts_ , leaving Steve Rogers, artist and _literal_ man of James’ dreams, in his dust.

~

“Oh, good,” James says as Natasha strolls into his living room, having unlocked his front door with her spare key. “You came.”

“You texted me thirty minutes ago saying that it was an emergency. I’m here,” she replies dryly. “I bought the cheap shit,” she lifts up a six-pack of beer, “and some Stoli.”

“Gimme.” He makes grabby hands from his position in a mountain of blankets on his plush couch, watching as Natasha rolls her eyes.

Still, she stalks over and shoves one of the two bottles of vodka she brought into his grasp before settling down next to him.

“Have you got any glasses?” he asks.

Clicking her tongue, Natasha tears the cap off her bottle and takes a sip.  

James sighs and mimics her. The vodka burns as it slides down his throat, and he swallows and grimaces.

“So,” she begins. “Talk.”

He hesitates. “The paintings I brought…the collection.”

“Yes,” she says, exasperated. “James, you aren’t making much sense.”

Breathing slowly, he decides. “I’m throwing everything into the pot. I don’t know if you’ll believe me, but…”

“But, what?” Natasha prompts. Her jade eyes flicker between amusement, concern, and irritation. Her grip around the neck of the bottle tightens.

“Follow me.” He sets his bottle aside on the coffee table and hears Natasha do the same. He leads her to the second floor of his brownstone and to the door of his private office, which he promptly unlocks. He steps aside to allow Natasha to enter before following her inside.

Natasha gasps softly, and he knows that she has seen the first painting. “That boy in the painting,” she says. “He looks like you.”

“I know, Nat.”

He waits as she surveys the rest of the collection. Then she turns a critical eye on him. “What is this, James?” she asks seriously. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I’m being honest,” he explains vaguely. When she narrows her eyes, James elaborates. “I bought this collection four nights ago at the Stark Gala.”

“I know,” she interrupts. “I was there.”

“That night, I had the first dream. The first of four so far. Each one has been centered on the scenes depicted in the paintings.”

“James,” she says softly.

“Just wait, Natasha.” He inhales swiftly and continues. “For some reason, I became intent on finding the artist of the collection, who had decided to remain anonymous. I asked Pepper and was directed to a gallery in-”

“Boston,” Natasha muses. “That’s why you went.”

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” he drawls sarcastically in response. “I found out the last known location and initials of the artist and then hired Jessica Jones to find him. She brought me an address, and I went to meet him.”

“And…” she asks.

James hesitates. “I consulted with a psychic in Boston who told me that it’s possible that my dreams are returning memories of past lives. Or, more specifically, one past life.”

Natasha, as expected, is not noticeably reacting; her face remains impassive. “What do you think?”

“I think…” he sighs. “I believe her. It explains the dreams and the scenes of the paintings. As for their existence, that’s another story. But, Nat…both the paintings and my dreams feature the blond boy and me. And the artist looks exactly like him.”

“And you say you met the artist? How did he react?”

After an awkward pause, during which Natasha’s lips purse into a frown, he blurts out, “he kissed me and called me Patroclus.”

Natasha’s frown smooths back into a relaxed expression. “I think I know a little something about your past life.”

“Wait!” Bewildered, he stares up at her. “You believe me?”

“I certainly don’t doubt you,” she says straightforwardly. “James, I am your closest friend; I know all your tells. You either are telling the truth or truly believe in whatever tale you are spinning.”

“Oh. Wait, what do you mean you know-”

“Have you heard of Achilles?” Natasha inquires, cutting his question off.

“The Greek warrior? Supposedly invincible? Didn’t he fight in the Trojan War?”

She nods in approval. “Achilles had a close friend named Patroclus; it was rumored that they were lovers. After Patroclus was killed by the Trojan prince Hector, Achilles vowed revenge. He murdered Hector but was shot and killed by an arrow fired by Paris.”

_“What has Hector ever done to me?”_

The words reverberate in his ears, said in the same voice and tone that Steve Rogers had said _Patroclus_ in. A flurry of sudden emotion _fear, concern, hopelessness_ flash through his mind, and James’ body stiffens. Almost immediately, the feelings disappear, and he involuntarily shivers.

“James. James? James?” Natasha is calling his name urgently. “James?”

“Huh?” He stares at her through blurry vision before shaking his head. “Yeah?” he slurs. “I’m fine, Nat.”

“What was that?” she insists, placing a gentle hand on his bicep. “You were gone for a few minutes.”

“I think…I think that was a memory. It was just a voice, but I think it was triggered by what you were telling me.”

Unsure of how to respond, Natasha changes the subject. “The vodka is still downstairs.”

“Yeah…” James sighs. “I need some of that.”

~

Later that night, James goes to bed four hours after midnight, only slightly buzzed, the effect of the alcohol beginning to fade, and feeling emotionally exhausted.

~

_Achilles sees the thing in pieces. Men, coming down the beach towards the camp. Odysseus, limping beside the other kings. Menelaus has something in his arms. A grass-stained foot hangs loose. Locks of tousled hair have slipped from the makeshift shroud. The numbness now is merciful. A last few moments of it. Then, the fall._

_He snatches for his sword to slash his throat. It is only when his hand comes up empty that he remembers: he gave the sword to Patroclus. Then Antilochus is seizing his wrists, and the men are all talking. All he can see is the bloodstained cloth. With a roar he throws Antilochus from him, knocks down Menelaus. He falls on the body. The knowledge rushes up in him, choking off breath. A scream comes, tearing its way out. And then another, and another. He seizes his hair in his hands and yanks it from his head. Golden strands fall onto the bloody corpse. Patroclus, he says, Patroclus. Patroclus. Over and over until it is sound only. Somewhere Odysseus is kneeling, urging food and drink. A fierce red rage comes, and he almost kills him there. But he would have to let go of Patroclus. He cannot. He holds me so tightly Patroclus can feel the faint beat of his chest, like the wings of a moth. An echo, the last bit of spirit still tethered to Patroclus’ body. A torment._

~

James is sitting at his desk, flipping through a budget plan for a new model of a prosthetic, when there is a knock on his office door.

“Go away, Nat,” he calls loudly, not glancing up. “I’m busy.” He has already asked to be left alone to work in private and knows that only Natasha will intrude on his request.

There is the creaky sound of the doorknob being turned and the scruff of the door against carpet as it is pushed open.

“I know, James,” comes Natasha’s voice. “But I figured you’d want to see this. Or, more specifically, him.”

“What, Natasha?” he snaps. “I told you I’m-” He trails off in surprise and shock when he raises his eyes and finds Steve motherfucking Rogers standing in front of his desk.

“Told you,” Natasha says wryly, leaning against the doorframe. She shoots him a smirk and before straightening and stepping aside. She slams the door shut, and then it’s only James and Steve left alone in the room together.

James takes his first good (free from panic and distraction) look at Steve Rogers who is just as broad-shouldered and gorgeous as he recalls.

Then he comes to his senses.

“How did you find me?” he asks quietly.

“Oh…I…uh,” Steve begins awkwardly, eyes glancing anywhere but at James. He swallows and tries again. “I figured that you finding me had something to do with _Philatos_ , so I contacted the SSR and…after I revealed I was the artist, they connected me to your company. Then your friend Natasha found me when I arrived here.”

“Huh.” James nods heavily and turns back to his work, feigning calm. Both his mind and heart are racing; he is uncertain of how or whether to respond.

They stand there in straining silence for a few minutes, James’ pen scratching against the paper as he goes through the mundane routine of signing document after document in the file.

“Pat?” Steve asks in a voice full of longing.

James’ head rockets up as he levels a hard glare at Steve. “My name,” he snarls, “is James.”

Immediately, Steve’s expression becomes contrite, his fair skin blushing an angry red. “Oh, right. Sorry, James.” He squeezes his eyes shut briefly and tensely runs a hand to rub at the skin between his eyebrows. Opening his eyes, he speaks again, “James…I’m sorry for kissing you.” He waits, but, James doesn’t respond, so he continues. “I know we got off on the wrong foot. I don’t know how much you remember or if you even remember at all. But you did find me, and that’s gotta count for something…Can we start over again?”

James studies him carefully; Steve’s voice is pleading, and his request seems sincere. Sighing and resisting the urge to tug at his hair in frustration, James replies, “I don’t know. Maybe…” Finally, he decides. “Yes.”

Steve’s eyes light up with happiness, and James winces. Steve’s face is more luminous than the sun, and it almost pains to stare at him, and-

_When Achilles died, all things soft and beautiful and bright would be buried with him._

“James? James?”

Steve is calling his name now with slight concern, just as Natasha did last night.

“Yeah,” James replies brusquely. “Just a memory.”

“One of Patroclus’?” Steve asks excitedly.

James nods.

“How much can you remember?” Steve barely manages to mask his hope.

James sighs, giving in and running a hand through his hair. “Not much. Some dreams of memories based on your paintings. A few moments where certain memories are triggered. I don’t-” He chokes, overwhelmed by a sudden rush of emotion, and clears his throat. “Look. You need to understand. My name is James Barnes. That’s all I’ve been, that’s who I’ve been, for the last thirty-two years. Nothing will change. I won’t become Patroclus overnight.”

“I understand,” Steve says soberly. Gesturing toward the decorative armchair in the corner of James’ office, he asks, “May I sit?”

“Sure,” James murmurs in reply, and Steve walks over and heaves up the armchair and places it next to the desk, sitting down opposite James.

“Look,” Steve starts. He bites his lip for a brief pause. “My name is Steve Rogers. I was born and raised in Brooklyn. My ma, Sarah, was a nurse, which was helpful, because I was chronically sick for half of my life. I nearly died twice before I was twelve, but then I joined my high school’s swim team, and my health conditions began to improve slightly. My dad died as a captain in the army; I never met him. I decided that I wanted to be an artist when I was ten; I run a graphic design firm with a college friend but also take commissions and sell to art galleries.” Sighing, he continues, “I’m not entirely Achilles and nor will I ever be. And I know Patroclus, but I want to meet James Barnes, if you’d allow me to.”

“Oh.” Glancing up, James finds Steve’s eyes, blue, large, and pleading, gazing right back at him.  He hesitates slightly, reluctant to reply to Steve. Finally, he sighs. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

“I think I might know a place,” Steve says, the corner of his mouth tugging into a teasing smile.

“What, for like a date?” James snarks, regaining some of his composure.

Steve’s gorgeous eyes sparkle. “If you want it to be.”

James fiddles with the cap of his ballpoint pen. “That’s certainly the most casual way anyone has ever asked me out. Last guy was over three years ago.”

“I think I have you beat.” Steve grins warmly before speaking. “Never.”

Trying not to gape, James presses his lips into a thin line before finally giving in to his urge. “Never?” he blurts. “A handsome fella like you has never been asked on a date?”

Steve shrugs nonchalantly. “I don’t really have a gift for flirting. You’d be surprised at the number of men and women who shy away from me.”

“Sure.” James shakes his head in disbelief.

“Besides,” Steve continue. “I don’t think I can put ‘reincarnation of an Ancient Greek demigod’ in my description on Tinder.”

That forces a gruff bark of laughter out of James.

“I don’t mind,” says Steve. “Believe it or not, it’s kind of hard with find someone with shared life experience.” His gaze becomes nostalgic and slightly unfocused before he snaps back to reality.

“Memory?” James question curiously.

“Nah,” Steve replies soberly, “I was wondering if I left my stove on.” Almost immediately, his expression dissolves into a wide smile, unable to keep a straight face.

“Asshole!” James cries good-naturedly in return. When he can finally hold back his laughter, he reaches over and nudges Steve in the side. “So,” he asks with a wicked smirk, “where are you taking me for our date?”

Steve matches his smirk. “You’ll see.”

~

“Where’s he taking you?” Becca asks excitedly as James rummages through his closet, setting out clothes for his date. He’s placed his laptop on his bed at such an angle that Becca has a view of most of his bedroom.

“I don’t know, Becca.” James sighs, refolding a shirt carefully to avoid creases. “He didn’t say.”

“Where did you meet him, anyway? When have you had time to pick up guys in the last three days since we spoke?”

“He’s an artist.” When she makes a noise of appreciation, he continues, “Steve painted the collection I bought.”

“Huh.” Becca peers into the screen of her tablet, attempting to better view James’ closet. “Ooh. Ooh. Wear the navy Henley, the one I bought you for Christmas.”

James holds the mentioned shirt up to the camera. “This one?” At Becca’s nod, he shucks off his current shirt and pulls on the other one.

“How are you even going to know where to go?” she asks conversationally.

“He’s coming here first,” he tells her distractedly, rifling through his drawers for a pair of socks. He sits on the edge of his bed and pulls them on.

“Is he hot?” Becca asks teasingly, and James turns to the camera to address her.

“Why are you so interested in my dating life anyway? Don’t you have work to do?” He reaches on top of his nightstand for his wallet.

Becca pouts. “Why can’t? You’re my big brother. If I’m not going to nag you to find a boyfriend or girlfriend, who will? Besides, it’s Saturday, and I already finished my caseload for the weekend at the firm.”

“Keep working like that, and they’ll make you partner,” he teases.

Rolling her eyes, she begins picking at her nails, a nervous tick of hers since childhood.

James raises his eyebrows. “Rebecca? Do you have something to tell me?”

Her eyes flare, but she remains smiling. Groaning, she attempts to divert his attention by saying, “I hate it when you use your _guardian voice_ on me.”

He frowns at her. “I served as your only parental figure for at least a decade; I think I’ve earned that right. Now, tell me, Rebecca Barnes.”

“Daisy’s been acting distant for the last few days…” she begins anxiously. “I think that she’s going to propose.”

Daisy Johnson is Becca’s girlfriend of five years. They met in college at NYU and fell deeply in love. Though originally from Milwaukee, Daisy moved out to Chicago with Becca for Becca’s job. Although Daisy lied and said that her job as a computer security consultant made it easy for her to find a job anywhere, James knows that she loves Becca too much to live in a different state from her.

“Becca,” James breathes. “That’s amazing.” His heart swells with pride and happiness, and he knows that she can spot his beaming smile. But, then, he glances up and finds Becca biting her lip. “Oh, Becs. What’s wrong?”

“What if we’re not like Mom and Dad? They were so happy together.”

Thrown off by her line of questioning, he chuckles. Gently, he says, “Becca, Mom and Dad were perfect. They gave a home and a family to two orphans from halfway around the world. I have never met a couple like them, and I’m not so sure that I will. Mom and Dad were the best role models for a marriage anyone could ask for, but you don’t have to be like them. You love Daisy enough that you’ll both be happy.” He can hear Becca sniffle but doesn’t glance up. “Besides, you don’t even know that she’ll propose. For all you know, Daisy could have a bad case of gas she doesn’t want you getting.”

When he hears Becca giggle slightly, he knows that his job as an older brother is done.

“I gotta go,” she tells him, glancing over her shoulder towards the kitchen. “My cookies are almost done baking.”

“Alright.” James watches as the video call disconnects and then powers down his laptop. He moves downstairs and has just laced up his boots when the doorbell rings; he hurries to open it and finds Steve holding a gigantic bouquet.

Steve’s face lights up once he lowers the bouquet and gets a look at the other man. “James,” he says eagerly. “Hi! I wanted to bring you flowers, but I wasn’t sure what kind you liked.” He shrugs, handing the bouquet over. “So, I went generic.”

James takes the bouquet and sniffs the aromatic roses; it’s such an old-fashioned and rare but appreciated gesture that it makes his heart flutter. “You can never go wrong with classics,” he jokes, shifting to allow Steve entry into his home. “Take a seat,” he instructs the blond before beginning to move into his kitchen. “I’ll be right back. Need to find a vase or tall glass to place these in.”

After scouring his cabinets briefly, James strikes gold when he finds an unused vase that some employee gifted him a few Christmases ago for Winter Soldier’s company-wide Secret Santa. He fills it mid-level with water from the sink’s tap and gently places the roses in the vase before returning to his living room.

Steve is standing awkwardly next to the coffee table, hands clasped together. He perks up when James reenters the room. “Ready to go?” he asks.

“Give me a minute,” James orders, smiling. He moves to his hall closet and retrieves a light jacket; it’s June, and the weather in Brooklyn is currently pleasant, but one can never be too sure. “Alright.” He stretches his arms above his head and watches as Steve’s eyes are drawn to the sliver of tan skin of his abdomen that is revealed when James’ shirt slides up.

James’ lips curl into a smirk; he knows that most people find him attractive, and he revels in it.

As they head toward the door, James gets his first good look at Steve. He is already incredibly good-looking, but his unusually tight-fitting sweater hugs his well-defined chest, and James is afraid that he will have a challenging time staring at Steve’s face rather than his pecs today.

“Wait!”

Steve freezes in his tracks, glancing over his shoulder to eye James. “Yes?”

Quick as a viper, James lunges forward and brushes his lips against Steve’s smooth cheek in a soft kiss. “Thanks for the flowers,” he murmurs seductively.

Steve flushes brightly.

Once they’re outside and on the sidewalk, strolling side-by-side in the direction of the closest subway stop, James can’t resist speeding up a bit. He turns around to face Steve, walking backwards but still skillfully avoiding pedestrians coming towards him. “Where are you taking me?” he asks with a dirty smirk, his patented expression.

He is oddly proud when Steve stutters, skin blushing brightly again. The blond has skin so fair that his blush is incredibly vibrant, and James wonders how far down that goes.

Finally, Steve swallows and then answers James, gaining enough composure to smile mysteriously and wink at him. “I guess you’ll have to wait.”

Pouting childishly, James returns to Steve’s side, and they carry on to their destination.

~

Fifteen minutes and two subway trains later, Steve and James return to street-level in the Meatpacking District, near the lower West Side.

James is getting more and more curious about their destination; he knows of several high-end and popular restaurants nearby, but Steve’s unfaltering stride makes it more and more unlikely that one of them is their end location.

“Will you ever tell me?” he badgers Steve hopelessly, but the blond just shakes his head with such finality that James swallows down any further pleading.

Finally, after walking up a street of brownstones, like any street found in James’ neighborhood in Brooklyn, Steve comes to a halt before a set of stairs leading up and off the street. They climb two landings until they emerge onto what could be a metal subway platform that stretches further than the naked eye can see. Little gardens of grass and flowers, along with lone benches, line the edges of the platform, and the surrounding skyline can be seen stretching endlessly for miles.

Immediately, James knows where they are.

“The Highline, eh?” he asks Steve, who seems oddly pleased.

“I come here to sketch occasionally,” he replies simply.

The Highline is a large bridge that stretches across a part of the lower West Side; it is a gorgeous rooftop garden built on top of an abandoned elevated railroad line. Becca has always liked coming here, but James had never found a reason to visit.

They walk along the platform in silence for a while. After a good half an hour, Steve stops and slides onto a bench, patting the surface besides him until James takes a seat.

“Talk to me,” Steve requests, his hair ruffled from their stroll and his eyes twinkling, causing James to take a deep, awestruck breath as his heart stills for a moment.

“Let’s see,” he drawls sarcastically in reply. “My name is James, I’m a Pisces, and, when I’m not off spending time recalling my memories of my life as arguably one of the most famous deaths in the _Iliad_ , I enjoy robotics.”

Steve chortles. “That’s not what I meant,” he says between breaths. “Talk to me. Tell about you, the _now_ you, not the dead you. I want to learn who James Barnes was last week.”

For some strange reason, James decides to open up about one of his most personal details. “I’m adopted,” he admits and smile in appreciation when Steve waits patiently for him to continue. “Both me and my sister. My parents were unable to conceive and took me in after my birth family perished in the fall of the Soviet Union. I was five, but I can still recall some of the chaos and violence in Romania. Mom and Dad never treated Becca or me like we were anything but their children. Best parents anyone could ask for.” He shares a sympathetic look with Steve.

“I think I know how you feel,” Steve begins sincerely. “I told you that I was sickly as a child?” At James’ nod, he continues. “I had scoliosis, so I could never walk or stand straight. I had asthma and a million allergies. I was particularly sensitive to pollen, which made spring and summer hell for me. I was almost half blind too. But my ma stuck by my side, especially after my dad died. I was three; I barely remember him. On some hard days, I felt like everyone was just waiting for me to die, but my ma taught me how to sketch and reminded me that there was more to life. She worked so hard.” He pauses and takes a deep breath; his voice is strained and emotional. “When she died, she left no instructions, just a legacy to protect.”

“Did you just quote _Hamilton_ at me?” James asks in the awkward moment that follows, and Steve grins crookedly, eyes suspiciously soft and damp.

“When my ma died,” Steve says seriously, “it turned out that she’d been saving money for my future. It was quite a chunk of money. I suppose that she had meant for it to be part of my college fund, but I had already won a couple of art scholarships. So, as I hoped she would have wanted, I used the money for laser eye surgery. My eyesight is alright now, and my back has straightened out mostly. My asthma faded away too, but the pollen still haunts me.”

“My dad lost his left arm in combat; he got a prosthetic, but it wasn’t enough for him,” James states clearly. “So, I founded my company to help veterans like him. We work with the VA.”

“My best and only close friend works at the VA,” Steve muses. “Maybe you know him? His name is Sam Wilson.”

That startles a loud laugh out of James, and Steve stares at him oddly for a moment.

“Your best friend is Wilson?” James asks breathlessly, still laughing. “Small world.” He wheezes. “I think he just started dating my best friend.”

“Natasha’s the girl Sam is so hung up on? I admire his bravery.”

“Yeah,” James agrees. “She’s frightening like a black widow, but, really, she’s actually a sweetheart. I’ve known her since college.”

“You mentioned a sister?” Steve inquires.

“Becca? She’s a lawyer in Chicago. I practically raised her after our parents died. I think her girlfriend’s going to propose; I’m proud.”

“I’m an only child,” Steve admits.

“Lemme tell you; younger siblings are not all they are cracked up to be. Becca’s childhood nickname for me was Bucky. Thankfully, she dropped that.”

“Bucky?”

“My middle name is Buchanan, and Becca couldn’t pronounce it,” James explains.

The silence between them becomes strained.

“What happens now?” James asks soberly. His tone is grim and all-business. “What do I do with this second life floating around in my head?”

“That depends on you,” Steve answers honestly. He sighs. “Look, I was fourteen when I remembered everything. For a week, Achilles was all I could be. I was brash, I was honest, I was prideful. I really wasn’t that much different; my ma never recognized that I had changed. I used to play the harp; my fingers now created art. But, the only difference that my ma noted was the violence. I was always seeking out fights against people I believed to be unjust, but, with Achilles, it seemed that I was seeking a _thrill_ from the violence and the adrenaline. It scared Ma, and it scared me, but, thankfully, after a week, Achilles’ conscious faded into mine.” He stares straight at James, who shivers. “So, I’m both Steve Rogers and Achilles. Both personalities were similar, and the incomparable parts have sort of meshed together now.”

“I don’t think I can ever be Patroclus,” James admits.

Steve reaches over to gently grasp James’ hand; the skin contact seems to comfort and ground both. “James,” he corrects him, “you don’t ever have to be Patroclus. You already are.”

James can only gape at the blond.

Steve continues, “Pat was a medic; you created a company to help soldiers live better lives. He was loving and kind, and, as far as I know, you care deeply for Natasha and your sister. He was cunning, he was witty, he was beautiful. He was my heart.”

“And you were his sun and stars,” James counters in a soft, hushed whisper.

“I think you can be mine.” Steve leans close to James, their noses bumping together gently; he is so near that James can count tiny freckles across the bridge of Steve’s defined nose that he had never seen before.

“I think that you can be mine.” James places a tender hand at the nape of Steve’s neck and pulls him even closer, until their foreheads meet, until their chests brush together.

“What does _philtatos_ mean?” James asks, his voice softer than the flap of a butterfly’s wings.

“Beloved,” Steve replies. He finally brushes his lips across James’ once, twice, and a third and final time, before bending his neck and capturing them in a delicate, emotional kiss.

They kiss for breathless moments before Steve straightens and pulls away slowly, rubbing at his aching neck with a spare hand, the other still gripping James’, who stares at him hypnotically.

James swipes a tongue over kiss-stung lips, feeling the tender skin. Steve’s hand is dry and steady over his own. “Why?” James questions hoarsely, heart beginning to beat only a slightly bit faster.

“Because you were my beloved.” Steve takes a deep breath and rubs a stubborn stray lock of James’ hair that has flown into the brunet’s eyes. “Patroclus and Achilles may have been us, may have been in the past, but we are now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos make the world go 'round! Follow the author on tumblr [here](https://princess-of-the-worlds.tumblr.com/) and follow the artist on tumblr [here](https://madara-nycteris.tumblr.com//).


	4. Art Masterpost




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